


The King's Gambit

by dorianpervus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Almost Kiss, Angst, Chess, F/M, The Fade, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6194512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorianpervus/pseuds/dorianpervus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months after the events of Trespasser, Lavellan finally convinces Solas to talk with her in the fade, outside of his wolf form. Mostly they just play chess. A lot of chess.</p>
<p>Basically just lots of angst, and Solas being all around self-loathing and totally in love with Lavellan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting this since I made the mistake of creating a draft of this fic like a month ago and /then/ posting it.
> 
> Anyways... I'm so done with this fic at this point so here, take it. I release it into the void.

He really should not be doing this.

It is worse this way, actually, because he was doing so well, and he rather easily could have continued to avoid her. The knowledge of such a truth should burden him with guilt, more than what is already present, but there is a sort of comfort to being in her presence again. At least, to be in her presence and not stand on opposite sides of a battlefield. It's not something they've been able to savor since his time in the Inquisition (and that should not seem so long ago as it does, considering how long a life he's actually lived).

It is refreshing. The smug satisfaction that washes over him every time he says "check", and her brows pinch together in that endearing way they do when she's disgruntled. He has no right to feel such a thing; there is no satisfaction, no honor in what he is doing in the grand scheme of things. He reasons, however, that a little pride stemmed from a harmless game of chess will not be _so_ detrimental, so he allows himself this. If not for himself, then for her. He has not seen her so at ease as she is here, with him, for a long time. So he pretends that this game they are playing, this meeting of theirs in the Fade, is an entirely selfless arrangement.

Nevermind the fact that he is incapable of maintaining his sanity when she is from him for too long.

They don't really talk. They mostly communicate through lingering looks and the occasional grunt of frustration. Sometimes he'll catch her studying him, and whether it is because she wishes to know his tells or because something else, he doesn't think he'd relish the answer. She hasn't won once, but she doesn't seem to mind. At least - not so much that she has decided to forego any more of their visits. She has a temper, one that has inevitably calmed through the years, as she gets older, wiser - but it's still there. He can see her try to settle it whenever he makes a particularly unexpected move.

In the beginning, he had actually found her tenacity rather engaging. For a man such as him - who had awoken to world practically blind to emotion - to find her - a woman who'd found such an unlikely balance between passion and wisdom  - was remarkable. The force of which she demonstrated her emotions was so unusual compared to what he had seen of these modern people. Was it such a surprise she captivated him as quickly and thoroughly as she did?

He's defeated the entirety of her pawns, and a good handful of the rest. She is down to her queen, one of her knights, one tower and, of course, her king. If she were anyone else, he would tell them their loss was unavoidable. But she is not just anyone, and as soon as this game is finished they will return to the waking world, and thus, back to their roles as adversaries, and their parting is not something he wishes to hasten. He knows, also, that even if he were to say such a thing, she would not listen to him. If he is lucky, she would simply ignore him and continue studying the board. If not, he could probably expect a chastising comment and an undignified sneer thrown his way.

So, regretfully, he is forced to put up with this for longer than necessary. He can't find it in him to be truly bothered by that, though.

In her defense, she _has_ improved. This set up was entirely unfair to begin with, considering he has - unquestionably - far more experience than she does. And she knew that; she said so when they first began these visits. The fact that she does, however, makes it painfully more apparent that the entire reason she situated this was to simply _be with him_. And he should be flattered by that, his heart should swell at such a sentiment but all he can think about is the end goal of his plans and where that will imminently leave her. He cannot decide if she simply does not understand what his goals entail, or if she does, and just doesn't care.

He's not sure which option he would prefer.

When he catches himself smiling - _that_ is when he knows he can no longer fool himself into believing this is all for her sake. It's not a gleaming smile that makes his cheeks ache and his lips stretch, but it is enough for him to take notice, and it is enough for him to ponder the last time he'd done such a thing genuinely.

She's getting agitated - in an exclusively competitive sense, of course. If she were truly angry he doesn't imagine they'd still be here. Her fingers tap an incessant rhythm against the wood of her chair, her other hand curled into a fist as she rests her cheek upon it. It's not lost on him that her missing arm always seems to conveniently appear during these visits. He can't see her leg, but she is shaking it - he can tell by the distinct way the rest of her body vibrates with the movement. And her eyes - intense and striking even on their own - are appraising the board shrewdly. They glance up at him, then back down to her pieces and she grumbles, "You're looking far too pleased with yourself, _Solas_."

She snaps his name, and under normal circumstances he would feel shamed by such a reaction from her. But there is an innocence to her berating, a sort of playfulness he picks up on. And - even as he curses its existence - his smile broadens.

He knows it will be quite some time before she makes a move. He does not mind. As a pass time he takes it upon himself to change the scenery around them. Originally, he'd decided to place them in a rather simple unnamed forest, filled with trees with great, thick trunks and flowers that littered the ground. Their petals ranging from deep shades of red to brilliant shades of pink; sparkling, shimmering droplets of golden dew hanging from their foliage. He summons small wisps of light, like dust under a sunbeam, and they float in the air and illuminate their surroundings with modest illumination. Some catch in her hair, and she idly waves them away like they're insects buzzing in her ear. He makes the flowers grow larger, stretching their petals until the ground beneath them is entirely obscured, and their roots twirl around the legs of their chairs.

"Show off." She mumbles, leaning toward the board, hand hovering over a couple pieces as she seems to finally come to a decision. He's fairly certain she paid little to no attention to anything that just happened, and it is so like her, he can't find it in himself to be offended. She has an appreciation for pretty things - silk dresses and shiny baubles and expensive jewelry. She'd never admit it outright, but he knows her well enough. Despite this, she has absolutely no fondness for anyone that goes out of their way to impress her. The simple fact that one must _prove_ themselves, she had once told him, immediately demonstrates they have no true worth to begin with.

Not that he was trying to impress her. Such an act would be preaching to the choir, so to speak.

She makes her move, seemingly pleased with her decision. He lets her revel in her satisfaction for a moment, watches the curl of her lips, the twitch of her brow, the way she leans back in her chair like she's about to proceed with a judgment. He knows what he must do to win this match, it is more clear to him than she realizes - but he decides to indulge her. He makes a real show of it too; purses his lips and shakes his head, tries to impersonate the face of a man out of options. And he takes his time, studies the board, occasionally looks up at her like he resents the sort of position she's put him in, and she absolutely _delights_ in it. She bites her tongue, smirks, a prideful, cocky sort of chuckle spilling from her lips.

He's not a combative man; he does not enjoy the thrill of competition. Maybe when he was younger and arrogant and reckless - but he is older now, he understands the pointlessness of such a concept. Detests the false sense of power that comes with one's "harmless" victory. It is the sort of thing that gets into people's heads, that festers and grows and warps into something that ends lives and levels cities. Power and competition is the reason he has done the things he's done, and the reason he must do the things he must do.

But he would be a liar to say he does not take a level of satisfaction in moving one of his remaining pieces, and saying, "Checkmate."

Her smirk falls, and she stares at the board. "Wait, what?"

She leans back toward the board, eyes inspecting what has just taken place with astonishment. After a moment, she gazes back up at him and says, "You made me think I'd won."

He doesn't answer. She doesn't seem fazed by this fact, considering he rarely - if ever - says anything during these games. It is better that way. Less risky. If they fall into conversation, it won't take long before one of them is spilling one secret or another. Or, and this could very well be far more detrimental, they _don't_. They don't talk about the war, the fighting, the body count that builds between the two of them. Instead they might talk of history, or his travels, or his life in Arlathan. They might discuss philosophy or the latest atrocity that is the newest Orlesian fashion trend.

They might talk like _lovers_ \- and that, _that_ is far, far worse than the alternative.

"That's rather petty of you, Solas." She says, although there is a smile forming her lips.

All he says is, "Perhaps."

She rolls her eyes, then wags a finger at him like a scolding mother, "I'll win one of these days, just you watch."

"I would welcome it." And he isn't sure if he's referring the game at all.

Then, they fall into something akin to awkward silence. Perhaps awkward is not the right word - more like, neither of them want to admit it's time to bring their visit to a close.

And suddenly, he finds the eerie light of the fog around them to be inexplicably fascinating. He studies it, takes great lengths to observe the way the mist twirls in the wind, like puffs of smoke. He can hear her shuffle in her seat, pick up and put down a couple pieces on the board as if the wood carving were just too remarkable to ignore. She's clears her throat, sighs, rest her elbows on the table and looks up at the leaves that lay in a sort of cross-stitched formation high above their heads. He allows himself to appreciate the way the column of her throat flexes with the movement. 

The words are practically on his lips. One of them will eventually have to cave, and a better man would not hesitate to bring this to a close. But every time he thinks the words will reach the air between them, something catches them - steals them and tucks them in the crevices of his ribs where they hide out. He wonders if she is having a comparably difficult time coming to terms with the inevitable. If the way she avoids his gaze lends any hint, he thinks he has his answer.

She does look at him though, eventually, and something in his expression must be telling because immediately her own softens. Her body moves closer to the table, leaning over it like she wants to reach for him and do _something_ \- but she doesn't. She just looks at him with naked longing and something almost like fear. Like she's afraid to go back and wage war against a man set on ending the world. Like she's afraid to wake up and realize this is all a fantasy, a break from the reality of their circumstances.

He admits he shares her fears.

"It could very well be morning." She says, and her voice is a hesitant, quiet thing.

"Indeed." He says.

More silence, and he watches her dig her nail into the wood of the arm rest. It is so painful, this empty air - like a thousand tiny needles pressing into the skin of his stomach. He wishes he could banish their surroundings with a wave of his hand like it means nothing, but he is too honest with himself to do something like that.

"We could just wait it out until I'm woken." She offers with a sheepish grin, "They never let me sleep in."

"And what do you propose we do until that happens?"

She shrugs, fingers tapping on the table, "We could always do another game."

"That would get rather repetitive, would it not?" He says, and suddenly, the chessboard vanishes  from its place on the table. She looks down at the blank space between them and sighs, resting her elbows atop it and staring at him with a detached expression.

"As if it isn't already." 

Solas sighs, "If you wish to play something new, I would not be opposed to it."

"What would be the point? You'll probably win at that too."

He's smiling again. And he really shouldn't be. But it is impossible not to in her presence, when she speaks to him in such a way, with such querulousness. Like she still believes them to be equals despite all he has shown her, and he is unendingly grateful for that. Perhaps he should not be. Perhaps it would be better if she _did_ fear him - and did whatever she could to stay out of his trajectory, to make sure she is not the next victim of his crimes. Then he wouldn't be here. Feeling the things he is feeling. And she wouldn't be swept up in this current along with him.

It would be better for both of them, in the long run. But he has never been good at following his own advice.

And then they do exactly what he has dreaded since the moment he sat down. They talk. Yes, they _talk_. Like lovers.

He never realizes until it's too late - how enrapturing she can be. The way she strings together sentence after sentence and somehow never manages to lose his attention. It's something he has rarely - if ever - seen from someone before, and he finds it so incredibly fascinating. And he loses himself in her, the way she speaks, lips curling and smiling and frowning and pouting and doing all sorts of delightful things - things that make him ache to press his own against them. He hasn't kissed her since he removed the anchor, in front of that eluvian, seemingly so long ago.

He wonders, absently, if she still tastes the same. If her scent is the same; like petrichor and rosewater and salt. Such an unlikely combination, and yet so fetching. So uniquely _her_. And if he did kiss her, would she make the same noises? Would she slip her hands beneath his tunic, dig her nails into his sides, moan the way she use to? Like she couldn't bear to let him go. Like the only way he could possibly stay is if it physically _pained_ him to move. He's never been needed like that before; with such possession and desperation.

And he's so close. The question is practically dripping from his lips because he knows if he were to as her, she would say yes. Without thought. He's not sure that's actually a _good_ thing though.

But, despite the incessant protestations that seem set on wavering his conviction, he collects the scattered words that linger on his tongue and pieces them together, begins forming the sentence with his lips when-- 

"I should go." She says, the words sounding more like a sigh than anything. She doesn't look at him, just bites her lip in that way she does when she's conflicted, and stands. He follows, allowing the furniture around them to dissipate, leaving them mere feet from each other with little to stand in their way.

There are leaves, twigs, a few roots in his headway but he figures he could still steal a kiss from her before she leaves, if he truly wished to. And he does wish it. Desperately so. But the overwhelming sense of wrongness that comes with the thought is too apparent to ignore. So he stands there, gazing at her with such fixation, trying to memorize every dip and curve of her features because who knows how long it will be until he sees her next? He trails his eyes down the column of her throat, to the pale silk hanging from her shoulders, tracing the length of twine that ties around the wolf jaw settling against her stomach. Once his, now hers. A gift of sorts. But also not really, since the initial reason he'd left it for her was so she may have something to remember him by. A rather selfish motive; leaving her this pendant of his, lending her some false sense of hope that _yes, we will be together once again, if only so I may take back what once was mine._ The likelihood of such an outcome is hardly even a possibility at this point.

He watches her with scrutinizing uncertainty as she comes closer - slowly, like he might flee at any moment. And truthfully, he might. Depending on her intentions.

The leaves shuffle quietly beneath her feet, the slight snap of twigs breaking every other step. When she reaches him - their chests only a few inches from each other - she raises her hand carefully, giving him time to decline or leave. He doesn't follow through with either. When her fingertips brush against the collar of his tunic, a shiver erupts down his spine and his skin tingles. His shoulders slack before he has a chance to stop them, and he leans into her touch instinctively.

And soon, she's leaning towards him, bringing herself to settle on the tips of her toes, breath heating his skin and she's _so close_. He reasons it would be offensive to lean back now, and she obviously has no qualms about one harmless kiss in the Fade. If he just pressed closer to her, just a little, their lips would touch and all of his earlier wonderings would be answered.

So he does.

He leans down, heart pounding against his chest like a hammer to a nail, hands reaching for her. He settles them against her waist, and she's so _warm_ , so _soft_ and inviting and suddenly all he desires is to be held by her. He feels the slightest, most tantalizing brush of breath against his lips and then...

Nothing.

She is gone. Her warmth, her breath, her scent, her smile. It is all gone. When he opens his eyes, it is to a green forest with red flowers and thick branches. And he laughs. A cruel, mocking sort of laugh because the irony of this entire scenario is not lost on him. He doesn't bother calling out to her. She has not simply dashed into the trees.

Something must have happened. Someone must have woke her. With such convenient timing, too.

He stares into the empty air, his laughter mingling with the soft rustle of leaves above him. And he stays like that for a time, pondering all that has just unfolded. How cruel the world can be to him sometimes, and how deserving he is of all of this. He's not sure how long he stands there. Once the initial vindictiveness of the situation wanes, and he comes to the conclusion he has been laughing in the middle of a forest like a madman for a while now, he realizes he actually has _things to do_. There's a sort of spiteful undercurrent to the way he practically slaps himself awake, because he's done this enough times to know the most peaceful way to bring himself from slumber. And that definitely was not it.

But it's effective, since after he is finished settling the vestiges of laughter still rumbling in his chest, he does, inevitably, awaken.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally know nothing about chess. Obvious? Probably. 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: dorianpervus.tumblr.com cause all I do is apparently write sad fanfiction about video game characters and I need more friends.


End file.
